An Encounter at the Waystone
by Widoh
Summary: Sometimes, Kvothe's past catches up to him.


**A/N:Just something I wrote a long time ago, hope you guys enjoy! smash that review button**

The man who called himself Kote settled in at the counter, fingers tapping against the rosewood surface, a beat that held no semblance of rhythm.

He uncorked the bottles with the practiced motion of an artist, a resigned perfection that only came through experience. One continuous arcing motion set the wine in the glasses without a drop spilled.

Kote manufactured a half smile to his customers, new arrivals from faraway lands.

One of the more vocal ones, a leathery and weathered fellow named Makin, began to tell a story through his half-drunk slur. The famous legend of Kvothe the Arcane, Kvothe the Bloodless, Kvothe Kingkiller.

"He had eyes of sunlit crashing waves, a sharp endless green that saw through you. His hair was the frozen instant of a lit fire, just before it spreads. And in a sense he _was_ fire. Lit, banking and blazing, a divine force of nature.

Behind the counter, a man with windswept bitter-grass eyes and hair the dull-red of a light bruise smiled wistfully.

"One day he rolled into a ravaged village on a horse as black as soot. It was a gift given by a gracious tinker, in return for music. He was tracking a demon, Kvothe was, so he had chased it all the way to a remote part of the land. Unfortunately, the demon had already killed a mother and father from the town, with their little daughter next in line.

Just as the poor little soul was about to be devoured, Kvothe swooped in and hammered the beast with thunder and lightning."

"Oi, Kvothe knew name-magic, didn't he? Why didn't he use the demon's name to destroy him?"

"This was in his early days, when he was just a pup. In any case demons don't have names. Trying to name one would be like trying to name one of the Fae, impossible."

Makin gestured for more wine at the serving boy, a light skinned foreigner with oddly feminine features, and held out his cup.

"What're you grinning about?"

Bast glanced back at the innkeeper and gave a small chuckle.

"Just a story I heard a while ago. You mind if I join you? Next bottle is on me, nothing more then 2 silvers mind."

"As long as you're paying. Where was I? Ah yes, Kvothe had driven back the beast from the girl, but this demon was massive and protected. Enraged, the demon charged towards him and began battle with him. For three days they fought, each side unable to topple the other."

Makin paused to take a swig of his red.

"Eventually the demon foresaw that he was no match for Kvothe and limped to destroy the village and escape.

Kvothe was strong, but not at the height of his powers. His usual magics could only injure and wear the demon down, so he pulled new strength from above. With the last vestiges of power, he called upon Telhu, and a divine iron wheel came from the sky and drove the demon into the earth."

The innkeeper toyed with two lodestones, pulling them apart with non-calloused slim hands. He watched them snap back together with eyes that were far, far away.

"He fainted from exhaustion, and when he awoke the unsuspecting townsfolk took him in for questioning. After he incinerated the ropes that bound him, he burned down a local store as punishment for their insolence.

But before he left, he visited the little girl and gave her his amulet of protection. His amulet made the owner impervious to harm and misfortune, only vulnerable to the great old demons. It took him two years of crafting and artificing at the university."

"And he gave it away?"

"Of course he did. Back in the day, he was still young and prided himself as a hero. It was only when he grew older that he..."

The old man stopped, his flow disrupted, eyes downcast.

"Well, there's no sense on dwelling on the past is there?" Bast nudged Makin's elbow. The storyteller looked up and gave a small grin "Course not. Now, about that drink..."

The Waystone devolved into festive drinking and revels as it usually did, all the while the man at the counter drank little and talked less.

If you listened closely, sat and waded through the chatter and the nonsense of the drunk, you would be able to hear the solemn beat of a distant drum. The sound of sand flowing through the hourglass, the silent frenzy of inaction. The innkeeper smiled and laughed, but none of it went to his eyes.

His eyes had the patient, cut-flower melancholy of a man waiting to die.


End file.
